


No More Tears

by MizJoely



Series: Sherlolly AU Prompts [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Sherlolly - Freeform, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>consulting-pathologist asked: "We live in adjacent apartments and our bedrooms are on opposite sides of a very thin wall and one night I heard you crying and talked to you through the wall” Sherlolly!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four AM

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dearly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearly/gifts).



> Title change because sometimes the right title comes to you after you've already posted the thing.

Sherlock sighed, rolled over, put his pillow over his head and tried to get back to sleep. No luck. With a grunt he sat up, shoved the same pillow behind his shoulders and let his head fall back against the wall with a loud _thunk_.

This noise cause a brief pause in the sounds emanating from the bedroom on the other side of the wall, but only a pause. Then it started up again; the sounds of a woman crying and not even trying to muffle the noises. Intolerable.

“It’s four o’clock in the morning,” he grumbled loudly. Speaking to the unknown woman who’d only recently come to occupy the adjoining flat in the off-campus housing. “You do know your incessant crying woke me up, right?” Thirty-six hours he’d been awake, finishing up a last-minute project for his ass of a biochem professor, then two hours asleep and now here he was, wide awake again and royally pissed off.

There was another pause, longer than the previous one, then he heard her muffled response: “It’s not my fault the walls are like tissue paper. Just….put in some ear plugs or something.”

His eyebrows levitated toward his hairline; she sounded not at all contrite, as he’d expected. No, she sounded just as irritated as he was. Interesting. But not interesting enough that he wanted to continue hearing her sobs through the wall. “You could go cry in your living room instead.”

He winced at the sound of a loud bang on the wall, very near his head. The flat thump of a fist, or he wasn’t the deductive genius he’d always prided himself on being. Her next words proved that he’d well and truly pissed her off, which was fine with him, since he was rapidly losing what little patience he’d possessed.

“You could go fuck yourself you insensitive git. Or, here’s an idea, maybe ask me why I’m crying? Offer a little sympathy? You didn’t even ask if I was in pain, I could be dying over here!”

“Pure melodrama,” he scoffed. “Your tears are clearly emotional in nature. And if you were in that much physical pain, you’d have dialed emergency services yourself.”

“What if I don’t have a phone?”

He rolled his eyes. “Everyone has a phone, Miss…whatever your name is.”

“Molly, Molly Hooper. And I prefer Ms.”

“And I prefer to be sleeping at four am, MS Hooper,” he shot back, unable to keep a smirk from forming on his lips. If he was going to be wide awake after only two hours’ sleep, then at least he was being entertained. His annoyance had faded as the conversation between the two of them continued to evolve in ways he couldn’t have predicted.

“Sure, that’s why I hear you banging around your flat at all hours,” she scoffed. “But you don’t hear me pissing and moaning about it, do you? No, you don’t, and you know why? Because I know how to be a courteous fucking neighbor, that’s why!”

“Courteous neighbors stifle their sobs or cry in the shower so no one can hear them,” he replied with an eye-roll. With a sigh, he asked, “So what’s his name?”

“Whose name?”

“The idiot who broke your heart.”

There was a long silence after his question, long enough that he wondered if she’d left the room, too upset to continue the conversation. Which, he assured himself, would be fine with him; he wasn’t _actually_ interested in why she’d been crying, only in getting her to stop. Which he’d accomplished, so therefore if she wasn’t going to continue, it was no skin off his nose…

“Edward,” she said, the name a bit more muffled than the rest of their conversation had been. “His name was Edward. And he wasn’t an idiot; it’s not his fault.”

“So you dumped him? Or he dumped you because of something you’d done?”

“No one dumped…he left.” He had to strain to hear her. “But it wasn’t his fault. So being mad at him is stupid. I’m the idiot.

Sherlock pondered her words for a long minute, mentally sifting through every nuance, everything she’d said and the things she hadn’t said. And when he had reached the inevitable conclusion, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled on his discarded jeans and said, “Tea.”

“Sorry?”

“Tea,” he replied. “Social convention dictates that I offer you tea as well as my condolences on your recent loss.”

“How, how did you…”

“Father or brother?” he asked, cutting into her stuttering confusion.

“Father,” she said after another longish silence.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sorry?”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the flat number, as you already know, is 221B. I’m putting the kettle on now, unless you’d rather just meet me at that 24-hour place down the road? Safety in numbers an all that? Or you could ring the landlady, Mrs. Hudson knows me and can vouch for my character.”

He could practically hear her thinking it over; her silence was louder than her crying had been. “No, it’s fine, thanks for the offer, but I’ll just…”

“Tea,” he said again as he groped for a t-shirt, still not bothering with the light. “And I think I have some biscuits. My mother and Mrs. Hudson would both have my hide if I didn’t do something more for you. At the very least I owe you some kind of apology if my odd hours have kept you up. I’ll leave the door open, just come in as soon as you’ve made yourself as presentable as you think you need to be.”

He was heartened by the soft sound of a chuckle; his mother would be extremely proud of him right now. He made a mental note to send her an email later, if he didn’t end up accidentally insulting his new neighbor again.

“Yes, all right,” she - Molly - said. “See you in a minute, Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he called, already halfway to the bedroom door.

“Thanks. For everything.”

He grinned as he headed for his small kitchen. Mycroft would be appalled but Mummy would, indeed, be proud of him. For the first time since meeting Victor Trevor, he actually had made a positive connection with someone at uni. So until he did something to infuriate her again - bound to happen with his track record - he would definitely count this as another hesitant step toward friendship.


	2. Six AM

Friendship. He’d been tentatively aiming for friendship. So what, exactly, had gone wrong?

First of all, Molly was yawning and not bothering to cover it up. Fine so far as it went; she’d been talking to him for an hour and a half. But then she had to go and lean back in her chair and stretch. That, later analysis of the early-morning events in his flat would reveal, was the precise moment: when Molly Hooper had leaned back in her chair and stretched.

Sherlock couldn’t stop his eyes from tracking the arch of her back or the way her (braless) breasts strained against the thin fabric of her (faded and oversized Sex Pistols ‘Anarchy in the UK’) t-shirt. Like most small-breasted women he’d observed, she seemed to be under the mistaken impression that a baggy t-shirt was more than adequate camouflage to conceal her lack of a support garment.

Like most heterosexual males, he was more than happy to keep his observations about that misunderstanding strictly to himself.

Sex was distracting and messy and frankly a waste of time, but it was something he was currently rather interested in. And after an hour and a half of not-nearly-as-boring-as-he’d-expected tea and conversation with his new neighbor, he’d come to the conclusion that he hoped sex was something she was interested in as well.

He’d already determined before her arrival in his flat at half four that she wasn’t currently in a romantic relationship and had no close female friends with whom she felt comfortable confiding her misery in the wee hours of the morning. She’d indirectly corroborated those deductions during the course of their rambling conversation, which also provided the information that: her father had been dead (cancer) for six months now (but she was still prone to fits of melancholy, as she termed it); that she wasn’t very close to her mother (parents divorced when Molly was still a teen); that she missed her cat Toby who’d died when she was ten (mother refused to allow her a new pet); that she was an only child; and that she was in her third year of graduate studies - medical school to be exact.

Also she was exactly five feet two inches tall, had long, straight chestnut hair (currently kept in a sloppy pony-tail), big brown eyes, thin lips (the application of lipstick would go a long way toward improving their visual aesthetic), and would fit perfectly against his body if he pulled her close and started snogging her senseless.

_Stop that,_ he inwardly chastised his overactive libido, which had apparently decided that the best comfort he could give his grieving neighbor was of the horizontal mambo sort.

Somehow he doubted she would be amenable. Certainly not after only two hours’ acquaintance. And, of course, the whole ‘crying over her father’s recent death’ thing.

“Tomorrow night,” he said…oh crap, aloud. He’d just said that aloud and now Molly was looking at him inquisitively in mid-stretch. “We should, uh, do something. Together. Tomorrow night. Not tonight because obviously you won’t be well rested after not sleeping last night and having classes today…we both have them, classes, I mean, and then tonight you’ll want to actually sleep, maybe and I really need to because it’ll have been 48 hours – not your fault, obviously, but still…”

“Sherlock, what are you…are you asking me on a date?”

He hesitated, running his recent verbal babblings through his mind. “Er, yes?”

Expecting the worst – his social skills were, to be honest, a bit not good – he was pleasantly surprised when she smiled at him. “Even though my eyes are red and I’m dressed in my crappiest clothes and with no make-up on?” She shook her head. “Even looking like this you and after I essentially snuffled on your shoulder for an hour…you want to go out with me?”

He nodded.

“Why? And no,” she added, showing off her own (rather impressive) deductive skills, “I don’t think it’s because you’re the type to hit on every woman you meet. Else you’d have sat us on your sofa and let me _literally_ cry on your shoulder, just to have an excuse to put your arms around me.”

“Because you’re probably one of the least boring people I’ve met since I transferred to this school,” he replied truthfully. “And fine, you’re probably not at what you’d consider your best-looking right now, but neither am I, but I can tell you’re still attracted to me and obviously you know I’m attracted to you and so we should do…something. Tomorrow night.”

“Coffee.”

He stared at her, and almost – almost – asked what she meant, when her meaning caught up to his sleep-deprived mind. “Coffee. Yes.” He nodded, just in case she needed a visual to go along with his verbal agreement. “Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night,” she said with a smile as she stood up. He watched as she carried both empty mugs over to his already-full sink and sat them on the countertop. “That twenty-four hour place down the road…Angelo’s, right?”

“Yeah.” He stood up, knowing that he should have been the one to clear the table, but also knowing (but not sure _how_ he knew) that having something so simple and domestic to do was helping her. Just like offering her the tea and a (grudgingly at first) sympathetic ear was the right thing to do. Oh yes, he _definitely_ owed his mother an email.

Molly hesitated by the sink, then walked over to him, got up on her tip-toes, and laid a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Sherlock. For everything. See you tomorrow night…will sixish do you?”

“Sixish, yeah,” he said blankly, still feeling the lingering press of her lips on his cheek. If he’d turned his head, the kiss would have landed on his lips instead…no, no, wrong. Not the right time for kissing, no matter what certain parts of his body were demanding of him.

He was determined not to ruin things. At least not until after tomorrow night.


	3. Tomorrow Night, Sixish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, thanks for reading!!

Sherlock Holmes was no stranger to being on the pull. So why were his palms sweaty this time? Why was his heart pounding in his chest the closer he got to his destination? Why did every woman with a petite frame and long brown (chestnut) hair catch his attention?

“Feelings,” he scoffed, earning a sidelong glance from the couple strolling past him. He ignored them and focused on getting himself under control. This was ridiculous, to be so nervous about a simple coffee date.

Ah, that was the reason; coffee _date_. He didn’t _date_ , he found a girl he liked and hooked up with her, when his body’s needs became too distracting to ignore. He and his one friend, Victor Trevor, often made a competition out of it, both of them being of the like mind that, although sex was amazing, relationships weren’t worth the (potential) guarantee of getting it on the regular.

Well, they _had_ been of like mind. Now, however, Sherlock wasn’t so sure, and what was worse, he still had no idea why Molly Hooper was different to any other girl – woman – he found himself sexually attracted to. Yes, she was pretty and smart and all the usual specs; yes, they’d met each other under emotionally charged circumstances and were neighbors which meant there would be repercussions if he fucked this up, but that shouldn’t make any difference to him.

The problem was, it _did_ , absolutely, make a difference to him.

He was still pondering the _why_ of it all as he arrived at his destination. He rubbed his hands on the sides of his jeans, scowling at the fact that he had to dry his palms in the first place, then shoved the door open.

Sixish, she’d said. It was six o’clock on the dot; a quick scan showed her sitting at table near the back, cradling a large paper cup between her hands. She’d looked up as soon as the door open, and her tentative smile told him all he needed to know. That she was just as nervous as he was. The fact that she’d already ordered also told him that she hadn’t been sure that he’d actually show.

There hadn’t been any communication between them; no more middle-of-the-night conversations through the walls, no passing in the hallways, no texts (they hadn’t exchanged numbers, why hadn’t he thought to ask for her number?), no spotting one another on campus (they shared no classes), nothing. He’d simply assumed that she would let him know if she’d changed her mind – and that she understood that he would do the same.

But no, the relieved expression on her face as he walked toward the table (quickly hidden under a falsely bright smile that was trying too hard) told him she’d understood no such thing. He’d have to be sure to spell things out better in future.

If, of course, non-sleep deprived conversation with him didn’t send her screaming into the night as it did so many others.

“Hi!” she said as he took the chair opposite hers at the small table. “Nice to see you when you’re wide awake!” She blushed as soon as the words left her lips, and he smirked at the confirmation that she was not only just as nervous as he was, but was apparently just as bad at small talk.

“Same,” he replied, then fell silent, not quite sure what to say next.

“Oh, coffee!” Molly blurted out, just as he started to excuse himself to grab his own cup. They both half-rose, then both started to sit back down, then just stared at one another before each sharing a nervous laugh.

“I must seem like a complete nutter,” Molly said when their laughter finally died down. “You’d think I’d never been on a date before.”

“I haven’t,” Sherlock admitted. She stared at him in surprise, and he shrugged, a bit self-consciously. “Not a real date, with some I actually want to spend time with. Just those sort of ‘let me buy you a drink and convince you to let me shag you’ dates, if you can call them that.”

He couldn’t read her expression. _Damn, I’ve already done it, alienated her when she probably thought I was some kind of knight in shining armor for letting her talk to me about her dad the other night._ “Right,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the table. “Sorry, I’ll just…”

“Get your coffee and then come back,” Molly interrupted him firmly. All her nervousness seemed to have vanished. “Because this is going to be a proper date, Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much you seem determined to sabotage it.”

“Not determined to,” he mumbled as he finishing standing. “Just…not sure how _not_ to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” Molly said. Her smile was warm and he found himself returning it almost bashfully as she reached out and laid her hand over his.

An hour later he was holding that same hand in his as they strolled slowly down the street in the direction of home. It was dark out but in this commercial area there was plenty of light and still a smattering of foot traffic, just enough to remind them that they weren’t alone in the world.

As far as Sherlock was concerned, they might as well be. He marveled at how well the two of them seemed to fit together, how similar their interests were – and how unwilling Molly was to back down on the few things they disagreed about. Drug use, for one; he saw no harm in recreational use, she was adamant that the perils of addiction weren’t worth the joys of a short-term high.

They continued to argue amiably about the pros and cons of using illegal substances until they reached the front steps of the small building that housed their flats. Both coffees had long since been consumed, their paper containers discarded, and the evening was still young. “Tea?” Sherlock offered, a half-smile on his lips as Molly pulled out her keys to open the front door.

She paused, then turned back to him with an answering smile. “Tea,” she agreed. “My place this time.”

He bounded up the four steps as she pushed the door open; as soon as it closed behind them, he impulsively cradled her head in his hands and kissed her.

She could have reacted any number of ways; she could have pushed him away, stormed off, slapped him, told him to go to hell…instead, she kissed him right back, fumbling her keys into her back pocket before throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close to her body.

He knew he’d been right about their mutual attraction to one another even before their (amazingly successful) first date, but if any doubt had lingered in the back of his mind, Molly seemed determined to banish it.

They made it up the seventeen steps to the first floor in record time, and from there to Molly’s flat where they recommenced the frantic snogging session they’d started in the building’s dimly-lit foyer. Things progressed from there in an even more satisfactory manner, until, in the early hours of the morning, Sherlock found himself being awakened by Molly for the second time. Only now, there were no walls between them, and the only cries to be heard were those of two new lovers reaching their mutual completion.

 


End file.
